Extraction protocol
by csfcsf
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in an unknown location, after being removed from Baker Street without warning. A security protocol has been put into place, removing him from London, alongside John. Before long he realises time is of the essence. He needs to figure out what has motivated the events and how to make a comeback.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Wrote this on the move, based on an old idea. Still not entirely sure about this one, but a whole day of airplane and train travel makes one cling to anything to mitigate the exhaustion. Thus this story was born. I only have a few chapters cooked up for now and I'm publishing for added pressure. Hopefully I can follow through steadily. (__Sorry, this is all I can do for now - to give out my best intentions and vague plans - life is pushing me hard these days.) -csf_

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Sherlock woke up, dazed and confused. He remembered Baker Street, and John visiting for the weekend. Then a sudden cloud of chemical smoke swiftly invaded the living room, tainting all air, suffocating them, knocking them both unconscious in one of the safest locations of London.

_Mycroft._

Extraction protocol had been activated without previous warning.

And John?

John was slumped on a spring bed nearby. Still unconscious, his brows knit together in confusion, showing he was fighting through the haze for a comeback.

Sherlock seemed to be more desensitised to whatever chemical substance Mycroft's mad scientists had concocted. Possibly due to the younger Holmes personal history.

So, as the day turned to dusk, Sherlock and John were suddenly alone in what appeared to be a simile of a mountain cabin. A squared central space with few windows on the wooden dominated structure, a fireplace with a long sofa in front, two single beds, a kitchen counter and a few appliances and other basic commodities of modern life. Nothing too modern, though. No telephone, no computer, no television or radio.

Sherlock's own phone had been nicked during his narcotised sleep, and surely John's had as well.

All in all, it was a humble, secretive, lost from all civilisation hideout. This meant Scenario 3 had been engaged.

What could have motivated the extraction?

One moment they were mid tea and talk, the next they were stranded in the middle of foggy mountains, judging by the sleek white snow and fog outside the windows. They had been cut from London and everyone. John was going to be _mad_ with both Holmes when he woke up.

Sherlock already was. Even if he trusted that there had been an unavoidable reason.

Scenario 1 was of the highest ranking. It meant chemical or biological warfare. It involved top ministers, royal elements, and Sherlock Holmes, among other prominent figures.

Scenario 2 was more personalised. An imminent credible threat to the consulting detective made by Moriarty and his people.

Scenario 3 - the present one - was the least catastrophic and most annoying one. It meant Mycroft's men were playing a diversion manoeuvre. A substitute tall dark-curls long-coat man was taking his place (he better not touch Sherlock's violin). To the eye of the public, Sherlock Holmes was still in London. Meanwhile, the real Sherlock was quarantined, against his intentions, so he couldn't resume his post.

John had been added along for two reasons. Firstly, he would never buy into Replacement Sherlock. He'd even worry and fight his way into having his friend out of confinement if a plausible explanation wasn't provided by Mycroft Holmes. So adding John - scenario 3, amendment 2A - was also meant to help keep Sherlock in the cabin for the sake of the country (and Mycroft's sanity) assuming that if enlightened of the situation the former soldier would fall into place in the plan and follow military issued commands.

Who knew? Could go either way, really. John could play along for Queen and Country, or join Sherlock in the dark side. Sherlock was hoping for the latter.

Especially with a Sherlock doppelganger going around London, fooling everyone outside the smaller circle that the detective now had around him. Mary Watson, DI Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper, would be told that Sherlock and John had departed suddenly due to a case. A simple straight-forward and credible explanation that wouldn't create suspicions. This was essential because a Sherlock clone wouldn't necessarily fool the friends the detective had nowadays (even if real cloning techniques were employed; Sherlock wouldn't put it past Mycroft). John had been the catalyst for that change on a basic plan the Holmes brothers had drawn years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so much for the interest. Just here to say that I forgot my usual disclaimers, before. So here you go:_  
_Disclaimer #1 - I own none of the characters or their previous feats (obvious, and dull);_  
_Disclaimer #2 - English is not my first language, so misspellings and other aggravating errors are likely to occur (I can only offer my sincere apologies);  
__Disclaimer #3 - this chapter was written in a dull airplane travel, hopefully it makes sense; I've never written on an airplane before; at one moment in time I think the stwerdess was reading my writing over my shoulder. -csf_

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_**.**_

Sherlock was a prisoner in some mountain cabin, in the middle of a snowy nowhere - the Alps, the Pyrenees, less likely Siberia - playing the waiting game. John was also there to keep him company. Unaware of what was about to happen, John had been caught in the sudden procedures as much as Sherlock. Unlike the detective, though, the doctor was still breaking down the chemicals in his system.

Sherlock did find himself going over to his friend to check his vitals, just to be sure. He seemed well enough. Regular breathing pattern, steady pulse, just that crease in his forehead kept Sherlock slightly apprehensive. John had said nothing upon arriving at Baker Street, but Sherlock recalled the immediate beeline he had made for the kettle and tea bags. Most likely, his shoulder must have been bothering him again, at the end of two consecutive shifts at the clinic. With a cold feeling at the bottom of his stomach, Sherlock hoped John hadn't already been on painkillers. The adverse reactions of the combined chemicals of both medication and sleeping agent were to be accounted for in future extractions. And at this point, John needed extra vigilance till he woke up.

If some medical emergency happened in that cabin, there was no way of contacting outside help. They were completely isolated for the duration of the extraction. A variable period of time to be determined by Mycroft Holmes independently.

Still keeping a weathered eye on John, Sherlock walked over to the door. He could feel the freezing air from the outside seeping in through the cracks. Estimated temperature from the cold air outside: -14°C. Too cold to allow Sherlock and John to walk to the nearest sign of civilization and organise their return to London. Knowing Mycroft they were securely isolated in the wilderness at the time. The best way to keep them safe. And grounded.

Sherlock still puzzled over what drove them out of London.

Sequentially, Sherlock tried the cabin door and every window in the small dwelling. As he suspected, they were all bolted and locked. The detective couldn't help but roll his eyes to no one there.

Doubt assaulted him. Had it really been Mycroft? Was there a chance they were being held by an enemy? And to what purpose?

Immediately Sherlock returned to the bed he had woken up on. Mycroft must have taken the natural doubt into account. He must have known that Sherlock's foggy brain would soon come up with conspiracy theories as to his own kidnapping that could motivate him to find an escape of the cabin. Sure enough Sherlock found an envelope by the bed. He had missed it before, for it had fallen to the ground. With clumsy fingers he opened the envelope and recognised Mycroft's swirly presumptuous handwriting:

_Scenario 3 engaged._  
_Next contact in 24 hours. -MH_

Uselessly, Sherlock looked over at his wristwatch. He already knew they had been abducted nearly eight hours ago. Sixteen more to go, before he could be either freed or aggravated by the renovation of their prisoner status. With a glance to John, Sherlock sighed. This was going to be a very long day.

Sherlock wondered if Mycroft recalled bringing along his nicotine patches, or if he'd find some board games in a cabinet, even what they'd have for dinner. Or what national crisis had arisen that would have been far more interesting to study in situ than being safe in the middle of a snowy nowhere.

Energetically, the detective would spend the next hour going over every square inch in the cabin. He found it to be too meager for his liking. Sure he was having his life protected, but need he go at it with canned food, bottled water, a couple of blankets and general purpose soap? Furthermore, John's presence there seemed to have been a last minute addition, cutting in half the discovered provisions.

Soon John would wake up and admonish Sherlock for wanting perfumed soap. He'd go on and on about the army, battlefields and luxuries. Deep inside Sherlock would recognise John was right, but that hardly made the ever so boring predicament of the present any better.

With a sigh, Sherlock took a seat in the wooden rocking chair (the only chair in the cabin, another miscalculation) and sulked over the motives for his extraction. There had been no case of late to motivate immediate enemies to take action, and the usual ones were under Mycroft's people constant surveillance.

Outside the cabin, the last remnants of daylight were fast disappearing, and the few dispersed trees erupted from the white snow blanket on the ground were casting long narrow parallel shadows.

Birch trees, twenty or thirty years old on average, slightly acidic soil. The long branches pending towards the ground showed signs of damage from earlier hail storms. By the length and direction of the projecting shadows, Sherlock deduced the cabin's location to be in the Central European Alps.

Possibly they had arrived on a private jet to a private undisclosed hangar, followed by a helicopter ride to the nearest helipad. Finally they had been transported still unconscious in snow bikes to their Alpine prison.

Mycroft may be saving on the soap, but not on the protective measures over his little brother.

Sherlock was finally startled by a small movement from John. He was waking up at last.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanking everyone for the interest. / For some reason the site isn't allowing me to edit this properly, so no paragraphs here. / It's really odd that I wrote the first two chapters without a single line of dialogue. (I couldn't, I guess.) Only in writing this one have I noticed that. -csf_

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**_._**

'John, can you hear me?' Sherlock's words were slowly seeping into the other man's spirit, rousing him.

The blond man lying in the spring bed looked confused as he took in the surroundings, having finally woken up. 'How in the world did we get here, Sherlock?' he defined as his first question. No "what happened?" or "where are we?". He didn't ask those questions anymore, hanging around Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, the only one in the world.

'_Mycroft._'

'Oh', John admitted. He should have known. The only reason to wake up in a different setting after being gassed unsuspectingly at tea time was Mycroft Holmes - other than medical reasons, poisonings side-effects, and over the top attempted kidnappings from enemies. 'Why?'

Sherlock pursed his lips before answering as honestly as he could: 'I still don't know. He'll make contact in the next fourteen hours, John.'

The doctor struggled through his cramped muscles to sit up. 'And you're sure this isn't just a safety exercise like they do for fires? A simulation of some sort?'

'I'm quite sure this is real, John', Sherlock allowed a smirk to the sleepy man.

'What did they use to knock us out?'

'No clue.'

The doctor raised an eyebrow. 'Side effects?'

'None pronounced so far. How about you?'

'I'll be fine just as soon as I take some paracetamol for the... headache.'

Sherlock noticed John changed the end of his sentence on the last second. Only one reason for a doctor to lie over his physical condition. He knows it's chronic and there's not much he can do about it. Enemy rifle bullets can do that to you.

'I'll try to find you some, John', Sherlock volunteered, hoping to be successful, 'for your headache.'

'Cheers... Have you eaten anything, Sherlock? I can fix us both something.' He got up without waiting for a reply, walking over to the small kitchen area to inspect the cabinets' contents.

'John, there's no hurry, just rest some more.'

'No need', he insisted, moving with a jittery energy that worried his friend. It was the energy of a man evading thoughts of physical discomfort. Hopefully time could improve on his condition, Sherlock thought. Being imprisoned with a cranky John Watson would be worse for Sherlock than being left in the extreme dangers of London.

'We can't step outside', Sherlock told him.

'Figured as much. Anyway, Sherlock, where are we?' John asked at last, turning around holding a couple of cans and facing the detective.

'The Alps. Maybe on the Austrian part, but that's just a guess for now', the detective defended himself as if he could be blamed for an incomplete deduction. No need, John was already looking at him with his usual admiration. All John could see outside the windows were scrawny trees and tons of snow.

'And how long till we are told when we can go back?'

'I wouldn't hurry too much, John.'

'Hanging around you is always full of surprises, Sherlock.'

'I try.' Sherlock actually smiled, softly, behind his friend's back.

'So why do you think they extracted us from Baker Street?'

Sherlock stopped short. 'You called it an _extraction_.'

'Yeah, I was an Army Captain, remember? I recognise the terms and know this sort of procedure.'

'Right... I don't know why, John. I will figure it out, though.'

'You must have been made aware of this type of scenario', John insisted. 'For how many days are there provisions for us in here?'

Sherlock frowned, taking a seat back in the rocking chair. Its swaying movement upset his thinking, he'd soon find out. Like a man who can't find a comfortable spot anywhere.

'It should last us two days, John.'

The former captain frowned. 'I've never seen this type of scenario for two days. I expect it must have been sudden and they'll need to replenish the stock soon. That was... unorganised.'

Sherlock cleared: 'It was meant for four days, John. You were added here as an extra.'

'Heck, four days of food can last up to eight days for you and Mycroft knows that! We may be here for a week, doing little to nothing.'

Sherlock smirked. 'Unless we leave, John.'

In front of him, John smirked as well. He was in for the plan.


End file.
